Malta is one of Europe’s southernmost countries. It sits right in the middle of the Mediterranean—only about 75 km (47 miles) from Sicily, and roughly 240 km (150 miles) from North Africa. It’s a small limestone archipelago: bright cliffs, rolling plateaus, and terraced fields that look like they’ve been literally carved out of stone.
It sounds idyllic—and in many ways it is—but farming here has never been easy. The soil layer is thin, there’s very little natural fresh water, winter winds can be harsh, and drought can stretch on for months. And yet, for centuries, Maltese communities have found ways to make it work—through clever stone walls, terracing, cisterns, and plain old stubborn determination.
A huge treasure of Malta is its bays and natural harbors. Grand Harbour and Marsamxett Harbour aren’t just beautiful views—they’re a true “magnet” for history: a safe shelter for ships, a trade hub, a naval base, and one of the main reasons these islands were fought over for centuries.
Megalithic Temples
Malta’s prehistory is astonishing—some of the oldest archaeological finds are said to be more than 100,000 years old. And the megalithic temples—Ġgantija, Ħaġar Qim, Mnajdra, and the Tarxien Temples, among others—are considered some of the world’s oldest free-standing stone structures. They’re older than the pyramids, and they feel like a question with no easy answer: who were the people who, on such a small island, built ritual sites this monumental?
The first written traces connected to Malta come from a time when major powers were already competing for control of this part of the Mediterranean. In the late 7th century, two marble columns from the period of Carthaginian influence were discovered on Malta—remarkable because they carried inscriptions in two languages: Phoenician and Greek. That find helped scholars work toward deciphering the Phoenician script.
But the Phoenicians left an even more lasting mark than stone: language. Modern Maltese is believed to belong to the Semitic language family, carrying a distant echo of ancient speech once used on the islands thousands of years ago. At the same time, it’s written in the Latin alphabet and heavily “seasoned” with Sicilian-Italian influences—and later, English.
That’s why Malta can sound both familiar and exotic. On signs you’ll see Maltese and English side by side; in everyday conversation you’ll hear a mix of eras; and in the words themselves—Malta’s history, in a nutshell.
Christianity
One of the most important stories in Malta’s history is the tradition of Saint Paul’s arrival on the islands. In early spring of 60 CE, the ship carrying the apostle from Palestine to Rome—where his appeal was to be heard after the ruling of the procurator Felix of Caesarea—was wrecked off the island’s northern coast. To this day, the bay where, according to tradition, he came ashore bears his name, and Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt later ordered a church to be built there.
Saint Paul is said to have stayed on Malta for three months, welcomed with remarkable warmth by the Roman governor of the island, Publius. On the site in Mdina where Publius’s home once stood, the first Christian church was built—later rebuilt in 1090 by Roger I of Sicily as a cathedral. Tradition also sees Publius as Malta’s first bishop. This living story—tied to places like St Paul’s Bay, Rabat, and the grotto associated with the apostle—helps explain why Christianity has such deep roots here, and why Malta likes to describe itself as an island “where seas and faith meet.”
As the Byzantine Empire began to weaken in the 11th century, the Normans arrived in Italy. As they conquered the south, they turned their attention to Sicily—and from there, Malta was the next natural step. To strengthen control over Sicily, Roger II of Sicily is said to have landed on Malta in 1091 and laid siege to Mdina. The Arab garrison surrendered without major resistance, and at first the change of rule didn’t dramatically alter everyday life for the local population. And so, by the end of the 11th century, Malta—together with Sicily—was drawn into the rising Norman kingdom, and more broadly into Christian Europe.
In 1140, during a stay on Malta, Roger II of Sicily established local self-government. He’s also credited with the early beginnings of the fortress from which a royal garrison was meant to guard the Grand Harbour—what would later become Fort St. Angelo.
Under the protection of its walls, Italian merchants—especially from the Republic of Venice, as well as Pisa, Lucca, and Genoa—founded a trading settlement called borgo, meaning “the settlement outside the walls.” In Maltese, that became Birgu (today known as Vittoriosa).
From the beginning, it felt different from the rest of the island—especially from Mdina. Mdina, set inland, was the city of old traditions and the seat of the bishop—rooted in what was local and “Maltese.” Birgu was the opposite: it lived by the sea, by trade, and by the outside world, populated largely by people who had come from beyond the islands. And tellingly, the self-government created by Roger II was administered by the people of Mdina—as if Malta now had two rhythms: one inland, and one shaped by the port.
Beyond granting municipal rights to Mdina, Roger II also strengthened the Church on the islands, which eventually led to the Maltese diocese being placed under the metropolitan authority of Palermo. For many centuries, Malta remained closely tied to the Sicilian world: first under the Normans, then under rulers connected to Crown of Aragon and Spain. Law, culture, and everyday customs traveled the same routes as the ships. That’s why, in Maltese cities, you can feel an “Italian” rhythm long before the British enter the story.
The turning point comes with Charles V. As the ruler of a vast empire—and king of Sicily—he handed the islands to the Order of Saint John in 1530. From that moment, the era of the Maltese Order begins. The knights expand the fortifications, reorganize the space, and plan a city “from scratch”—and after the dramatic events of the 16th century, Valletta is born: a fortress-city that still looks like it was designed, first and foremost, for defense.
Then the French arrive—briefly, abruptly, in a wave of revolution—followed by the British, whose rule is long and systematic. And finally the 20th century carries Malta to independence (1964) and then to a republic (1974).
And suddenly this tiny island—“too small for empires”—turns out to be a country with a history far larger than its size on the map.
The Great Siege
1565 is the moment when Malta truly becomes a fortress—and starts being built not only from stone, but from legend.
What matters here is that the Order of Saint John had only recently arrived on the islands. For the first years, they weren’t even fully certain they would stay for good. That’s why the defensive system was “closed” in stages, and some key positions—including Fort St. Elmo—were completed relatively late, once the threat had become impossible to ignore.
When the Ottoman Empire fleet finally appeared off the coast, the imbalance was overwhelming: on one side, massive numbers and heavy artillery; on the other, a small group of defenders—knights, soldiers, and civilians—who had only walls, discipline, courage, and hard-won experience.
One of the most surprising—and ultimately disastrous—Ottoman decisions was to strike St. Elmo first. It was supposed to be a “quick key” to the harbors. Instead, it became a bottomless well. The fort fell, but its defenders bought priceless time: they bled the attackers, slowed the entire campaign, and made every single day of fighting cost far too much—in lives, morale, and momentum. And every day gained gave the defenders exactly what they needed most: time to prepare the next lines of defense.
As the siege dragged on for weeks, more mistakes surfaced: overconfidence in sheer numbers, underestimating Malta’s fortifications, growing logistical strain, and staggering losses in assaults on the bastions.
And then there’s the human factor—the decision, the leadership: Jean de Valette. His steady nerve, organizational genius, and ability to keep the defense “in line” held the island together when everything around it seemed ready to break.
The victory mattered far beyond Malta itself. It sent a signal to Christian Europe that Ottoman expansion could be stopped. And the price of that lesson was later written into stone—into even stronger fortifications, and into the fortress-city that rose in Valette’s honor: Valletta.
World War II
was Malta’s next “fortress island” test—with one crucial difference: this time, the danger came from the sky, almost every day.
In the soft limestone, shelters began to appear—and then expand—into an entire underground “survival city”: tunnels, chambers, storage rooms, medical posts, and command centers, designed so people could keep functioning below ground while air raids raged above. The bombing was so intense that Malta is often described as one of the most heavily attacked places in Europe during the war.
And yet the island wasn’t starved into surrender or cut off completely. The turning point was the Allied convoys—often dramatic runs through blockade and heavy fire—because keeping Malta alive meant something bigger: from its airfields and harbors, the Allies could strike the Axis supply lines feeding North Africa.
Over time, Malta also became one of the pillars of preparation for Operation Husky—the invasion of Sicily in July 1943. Planning and coordination centers operated here (some of them underground), and the island served as an operational base for the push north.
For that endurance—and for Malta’s strategic importance—came an extraordinary honor: on April 15, 1942, King George VI awarded the people of Malta the George Cross, the British Empire’s highest civilian award for bravery. And it’s no accident that in those years Malta was often called an “unsinkable aircraft carrier”—because even if you couldn’t sink it, it could control the sea and the skies from one of the Mediterranean’s most critical crossroads.
European Ribbon 
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